Your Only Doll
by need not
Summary: "And what can I do with a girl if she refuses to be mine?" One-sided Kilgrave/Jessica, based off Laura Marling's song "Your Only Doll."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm not normally a songfic girl but this song was just so very, very Kilgrave and Jessica.** **Please note, I absolutely do not ship them in any way, I just thought this fit his control of her.**

 **Song here: watch?v=CasI839YnDY**

* * *

 _I fell into the street_  
 _Poison in my veins,_  
 _Clambered to my feet,_  
 _And into the night again_

 _Back to my home,_  
 _Back to my owner_  
 _who screams at my tardiness,  
_ _Put his hands to the sky,_

 _And says,  
_ _"What can I do with a girl if she refuses to be mine?"_

* * *

She'd almost gotten away.

She'd made it out of the hotel, past the front desk clerk and the doorman and the valet smoking a cigarette outside.

He was getting careless. He'd forgotten to tell her to stay.

She'd wiped her lipstick with the heel of her hand and spit on the ground, ripped the shoes off her feet. Her head had still been fuzzy from whatever he'd slipped into her drink at the restaurant-some drug she'd watched him put in there but had been powerless to stop once he'd told her to drink it.

Fuck him.

She'd wanted to rip the dress off but she was standing in the middle of the street, and Jessica Jones was not a woman to attract attention.

But she'd been done playing dress-up.

She'd made it almost a block and she'd heard his voice and she hadn't been quick enough, dammit, and she'd turned and-

there

he

was.

She had been _so close_ , so goddamn close to getting away and shit, there he was and the second he opened his mouth-

 _"Jessica!"_

She ran.

But some idiot had left a broken bottle on the sidewalk and she stepped on it and down she went, fuck, sprawled on the sidewalk like a goddamn drunk who couldn't get her bearings.

He'd drugged her.

But she'd drunk it. His hand moving hers like puppet strings, maybe, but her hand had picked it up and poured it down her throat, so whose fault was it?

Puppet strings, doll parts, dresses and makeup and a body for him to do whatever he pleased with. That's all she was and she hated herself for it.

He picked her up, talked to her in that soothing voice that made her feel like a child but also comforted her in a weird way, and fuck, she hated herself even more for that.

"Jessica, you know it's useless to run, don't you?" he said, picking her up, helping her stand.

 _I know it's useless to run,_ she thought.

He took her back to the hotel, told everyone to forget they'd seen her face, told them they didn't want to be disturbed. She felt a small fire of anger in her gut at that, because _God_ , he could have just put the damn sign on the door, he didn't need to show off _all the damn time_.

But she was too sleepy to be angry, too drained.

They entered the hotel room, and he shut the door, held her face in his hands.

"Jessica Jones," he chuckled. "What ever am I going to do with you?"

His tone turned darker, commanding. "Go clean yourself up, put a different dress on. And remember, you're mine."

 _I'm yours_ , she thought.

And she put on a dress, brushed her hair.

Just puppet strings and doll parts.


	2. Chapter 2

_In his bed I am queen, unobtainable me  
Sexual being, human with feelings  
The two are not me  
The two will not be mine_

 _And what can you do with a girl  
If she refuses to be mine?_

She lays there.

Lays there lays there lays there and hopes he doesn't tell her to enjoy it because then she'll have to.

She pretends to be the doll he wants her to be. She makes herself blank and featureless and emotionless inside and on the outside she smiles because he tells her to. She separates herself, the Jessica in her head and the one lying on the bed with him over her, crushing her.

She hopes one day he'll get tired of playing with her. But right now she is his favorite toy and god she almost hopes he breaks her soon, finds some flaw, something wrong that shatters her where he can't put the pieces back together.

When he is done (thank God it doesn't take him long this time,) he tells her to clean up.

"But stay in my sight," he says, and she knows he's learned from his previous mistake.

She curses inside her head. She does what he wants, her back to him, and then excuses herself to the restroom.

Maybe he'll fall asleep soon. There's not a chance in the world he'll let her leave again, not a chance he'll slip up.

Three months.

She's been doing this three months (though saying she's doing it implies she has a choice, and fuck that), and she has never hated herself more than she does right now.

God if she could cut her strings she would. But his grip on her is too tight, and she'd get tangled in the strings if she tried.

"Come back in here," he calls, and she splashes water on her face and heads back in the hotel room.

If she's fast, could she grab the bottle of wine, smash it over his head before he has a chance to tell her not to?

He's sprawled on the bed when she returns, shirtless, and she fantasizes about breaking the bottle of champagne and leaving a scar right between his ribcage.

She is not his. She isn't, she isn't, she isn't. She won't be.

But right now, with him still lying there, smirk on his face, with her throbbing foot reminding her of her mistake and her head clouded and her will almost, almost broken—

she forgets.


End file.
